Auto Biography XV

“A Fine Set of Wheels”

This photo is not the photo I would have used for this post; however, the shot I would have used was never taken. It’s forever etched in my mind, though. If a picture is worth a thousand words, put up your feet while I try to describe the scenario on the night before we traded Jules for a new Volkswagen.

Our dear friend Treena has a professional grade camera and offered to take some photos for posterity. We don’t have many pictures of our beloved Camaro. What we do have are “working” snaps, pictures taken on road trips or after weather events like the Blizzard of ’96. We never did do the photo op we talked about when he was brand new. That’s why, in the shots Treena took, there’s a dent in his right flank and the hood on the driver’s door mirror is still wearing its factory primer (we never got it painted after the lens went phht!—but that’s another story). All the same, we took immaculate care of his motor and safety features; he had over 160,000 kms on him when we let him go, but he still ran like a dream.

I digress.

On his last night with us, I drove Treena up to Craigdarroch Castle and watched her do her photographer thing. She circled the car, snapping this way and that, taking cool background shots, artsy angle shots, and whatever else shots she felt would do justice to her unwitting subject. Through it all, Jules stood quietly, not posing precisely, but behaving like a gentleman for the lady. I wish I’d thought to bring my own camera, not to try my hand at emulating Treena, but to catch the moment when Jules ceased to be an inanimate object and became, for a brief instant, a living, breathing creature.

I was standing behind and to the right of the car as she crouched to get this shot. Treena is a delicate little thing, a fairy child with hollow bones, who might be blown into the trees by an aggressive gust of wind. Jules was coiled like panther, muscles bunched and thrumming, as she hunkered by his nose and lifted her camera. In that moment, in the mystic evening light, he looked about to pounce ... but then he lowered his head and let her take his picture. Seeing the two of them in that frame created a delightful memory which, unfortunately, I can only share through these inadequate words, but which will stay with me for the rest of my days.

Auto Biography XIV

“Jules”

Mum: “Jings, Betsy.”

Older older brother: “It looks like it’s going 100 miles an hour and it's standing still!”

Management co-worker: “Clearly the admin staff are making too much money.”

To this day, I don’t know how much our brand new Camaro cost. I do remember that the purchase process was excruciating. I went to three banks and was told at each that I wasn’t a good risk because I had no collateral and the car wouldn’t be worth what I was paying for it. (That’s when I learned that loans are only given to people who don’t need the money.)

I don’t even remember how we wound up at the dealership in the summer of 1996, perusing a shiny automatic that looked green from one angle, blue from another, and purple at a third. The colour was called “mystic teal”. The sales dude was called Anthony. From the instant we set foot on the lot, he was on us like white on rice. A likeable young chap, determined to get us the car of our dreams. Well, of Ter’s dreams. She was the Camaro freak – but if I had to own a Chev, the body style in 1996 was my first choice. The old Camaro was starting its death spiral, so my sole condition for upgrading was that a replacement have no previous owner. No abused lease rejects, no neglected pre-owned wheels spiffed up for suckers. I wanted to manage a new vehicle from scratch.

That new vehicle eluded us for weeks because of the “no collateral” clause. We test-drove a less-expensive Cavalier, but who were we kidding? It was Camaro or bust. Eventually, we told Anthony thanks but no thanks and drove our crotchety old wheels back home.

The gods—and Anthony—were not about to let us go, however. Some days after bidding Mystic Teal a final farewell, the phone rang. “I’ve found two new Camaros for you, ladies, but I know you won’t want one of them.”

I dared to ask why not.

The kid replied, “It’s silver.”

Oh, yeah. Aside from “no previous owner”, my other sole condition was “not silver”. (I still don’t understand the appeal of silver cars.) “Okay,” I said, “what’s the other one?”

“Black.”

I sighed. “We’ll be right out.”

Driving down Cook Street, we were absolutely silent. I was fed up thinking about how to get a car we clearly couldn’t afford, until my little voice murmured the very words that Ter spoke aloud as she turned left onto Bay Street.

“We could call him ‘Jules’.”

Well, that was akin to kissing the bear’s nose. Once he had a name, he was ours. Or, rather, we were his.

The financial whiz at the dealership wheedled a deal with one of the banks that had originally told me to sod off—this after I refused, at the age of 35, to ask my dad to co-sign a loan—they gave us a handful of clams for Ter’s old Camaro, and the two of us left work early to collect our new toy on the first day of autumn in 1996.

The car was being shipped from the mainland and hadn’t arrived yet. I will always remember sitting at the dealership, looking out the plate glass window at the traffic streaming along the highway. Suddenly, there he was: sleek, black, shiny; a panther prowling up the outside lane, a tawny yellow eye blinking right as he turned off the main road. “There it is,” Anthony announced “your new Camaro.”

Taking possession of a brand new sportscar is a joy unlike any other. A new mother doesn’t feel as much for her newborn as I felt on first glance at our fabulous, glossy, witchy-eyed ride. I was practically salivating. I’ve no idea what Ter was thinking or how she felt ... but have I mentioned that our fresh-from-the-shell baby was a standard shift and she had learned on an automatic? That’s right, folks. Ter did not know how to drive a stick.

But, in typical Ter fashion, she was fearless in her enthusiasm to learn. The very next night, we were in the mall parking lot, she behind the wheel, me having kittens in the passenger seat—to this day, I don’t know how I taught her to work the gears but I must have done something right because she was soon cruising in expanding circles around the lot. “Let me take it home,” she said, bubbling over with pride at her mastery of clutch and gears. (In truth, she did pick it up pretty fast.)

Erm, ahhhh, uhhhh ... “Okay,” I croaked.

So, of course she chose the route that featured what we refer to as “the Fat Choy Hill”—an intersection at the crest of a 40% grade with a Chinese market perched on one corner. It would have been fine had the light stayed with us, but no, as we approached, green turned to amber turned to red. I, who had once rolled my dad’s Toyota about twelve feet back on a gentle slope, recommended downshifting to keep the wheels in motion, to no avail. And, yes, the car stalled not once but twice, with a BMW breathing on our bumper and me freaking out at Ter’s elbow. Give credit where it’s due, though: flustered as she was, the bumblebee got her wings whirring and achieved liftoff as the light went red again. We got through the light.

The BMW, naturally, ran it.

* * *

It feels odd to write so clearly about a vehicle long gone, but he served us well and we loved him to the last. I have said before that you can’t own a car for fourteen years and not have a bunch of stories to tell, so further tales from “Ter and Ru and a Car Named Jules” will be posted as more memories surface. Stay tuned!

Merry Christmas to Youbou

We think it’s about the prezzies. We run around like headless barnyard fowl and dig ourselves into debt for things we hope will fix us permanently within people’s hearts, or prove to them how fixed they are in ours, and it’s almost a guarantee that on Christmas morning, if the planets are aligned and you were in psychic tune with the Universe while shopping at the mall, you’ll be a rock star for the moment.

And that’s okay. It happens to everyone and everyone does it. We all have those magical moments when something we’ve always wanted is gifted with love and gratefully received, and vice versa. Once in a while, a gift will stay with you for years, as fondly remembered as the person who gave it to you, though I’m willing to bet the majority of things given and things received can neither be recited nor matched to the proper person before two Christmases have passed.

And that’s okay, too. Tangibles are truly fleeting.

We remember traditions because they happen every year. Traditions, I think, are more important to us than the prezzies; we just don’t realize it.

When Ter and I lived in our gorgeous old Victorian suite, my mother once said it didn’t feel like Christmas until she and Dad came to us for our annual holiday tea. I have to say, we decked those halls in spectacular magazine-spread style, and it was a pleasure for us to host the parents for a visit over seasonal savouries and sweets each December.

One of my most memorable holidays, however, happened the year my parents were unable to come because Mum went down with a hella cold and Dad was on the brink of following suit. At the time, they lived 90 minutes out of town, over the Malahat and left on Highway 18, and it made no sense for them to try and travel all that way for a couple of hours with us, especially when neither of them was in partying health. It was disappointing, but also the wiser course.

On Christmas morning, after we’d opened our presents and had our breakfast and spoken with our loved ones both in town and out, we decided on the spur of the moment to go see Mum and Dad. Why not? It was a beautiful sunny day, we had no other plans, and it bugged us that they were both sick at home on Christmas Day.

So we loaded their gifts into the Camaro, blasted up the ’Hat and turned left on Highway 18. One of the things I loved about Jules was how he proved the theory of time slowing as speed increases. I swear, the faster he went, the slower the scenery seemed to flow past the window, and in top gear, he was all but airborne along that stretch of asphalt.

Right off Hwy 18, with the forest closing in on a twisty-turny road, Porky Pig’s rendition of “Blue Christmas” came on the r-r-r-radio. Between laughing and singing along, we arrived at the parents’ place in seemingly record time. Dad was so surprised to see us at the front door that he forgot to feign dismay. We ambushed Mum in her sickbed (she drew the covers to her eyes and ordered us from the room before we caught what was catching), then sat with my father in the living room until, unable to keep herself in isolation, Mum joined us for a cup of tea and a present exchange.

I don’t remember what we talked about or for how long we stayed, but I do remember the joy I felt at surprising them that Christmas. It was one of the happiest holidays of my adult life.

And though I don’t recall what we gave them, I’m pretty sure my prezzie was a bottle of Bailey’s.

De Deuce, You Say!

Ahhhhh, the heavy, Dior-esque perfume of leaded gasoline. The rib-quaking rumble of a chrome-plated V-8. The leonine roar of that same engine. The affronted bellow of a lesser model, revving to crest the top of the slope as it awaits the traffic flag’s all-clear. People clapping, horns hooting. A pair of old guys parked on the tailgate of a vintage Dodge pickup, providing Muppet-like commentary as the parade flows past.

And the colours! Candy apple red, basic black, pearl white, sunshine yellow, Tang orange, deep purple, sky blue, mint green, burnished copper. The occasional two-tones: black and white, black and red, red and orange, orange and yellow, buff and wood-grain. The detailing: flickering flames, grinning skulls, swooshes and swirlies in complimentary shades of turquoise and magenta. BC plates and US plates on exotic roadsters and hulking sedans. White wall tires, sparkling spoke hubcaps, rag tops and hardtops, white-haired seniors and tattoed twenty-somethings behind steering wheels as big as manhole covers.

The deuce coupes come to town every couple of years. When they do, they bring out the automotive afficianados among the locals and jam up the neighbourhood for the better part of a Saturday morning. I was sitting in the Ocean Room last weekend, reading while the world passed by my window. Normally, I hear the nondescript drone of ordinary traffic punctuated by a diesel tour bus, but when I heard something with a carburetor, I looked up to see a fluorescent orange hotrod zipping along Dallas Road. It was followed in quick succession by a bright yellow deuce, a black gangster-mobile from the 1930s and a purple-and-azure 50’s Plymouth. The event is called for the deuce, but anyone with a classic car is welcome to the party—even if you’re driving Grandpa’s rusted Olds because you can’t afford anything newer. They converge on Clover Point after breakfast on Saturday and cruise from there along Dallas Road to wherever lunch is scheduled.

After twenty minutes of gumball colour streaming, I couldn’t stand it. “I’m going down to see the cars,” I called to Ter. “I’ll be back in a half-hour.”

Except I forgot to bring my phone to remind me of the time. I brought the Canon instead, managing to snap maybe twenty pictures before the batteries died (I haven’t used it much lately), then finding a spot simply from which to enjoy the show. I’d have stayed to the last of the estimated 1200 cars, but Ter had an appointment and I was going along for lunch afterward.

I love my 2010 Tiguan. I loved my 1996 Camaro, too, but Blue Thunder was my first and Blue Silver was my baby. I love cars in general, so much that I wish I’d thought to take auto shop in high school except that it wasn’t offered to girls and among the countless other clues I’d not had at the time was my ability to comprehend the workings of an engine. Learning how to tinker under the hood never occurred to me, though I think I would have enjoyed it. Nowadays, with vehicles run by computers, designed from the same template and only available in five shades of grey, it’s disheartening to think that the art of the car may be dying out … until the deuces come to town.

Long live the classics.

Auto Biography IX

Jules’ Bells

a fine set of wheels

Jules was bought brand-spanking-new – three months before the blizzard of 1996 hit. A friend had said that if you can imagine yourself thinking that's a fine set of wheels some years down the road, then you should buy the car now. I looked into the parking lot on the morning of December 28 and saw nothing but a rumpled snowscape with a solitary red taillight peering balefully through the virgin white. I nearly had a heart attack.

You can’t own a car for 14 years and not have a hatful of tales to tell when you’re done. Jules took Ter and me on some grand adventures during his time with us, many of which will be their own Auto Bio posts. He was a ‘96 Chev Camaro, black, standard 5-speed, low, sleek, witchy-eyed and gorgeous even after he was well past paid off. I still see versions of him on the street and admire each one as it cruises past. It’s hard to believe that the model is almost 20 years old. I won’t call it a classic, but it sure was purty. And because he was ours, Jules was the purtiest of them all.

Living in a Victorian mansion from 1993 had turned us into froufrou junkies and our mutual love of Christmas eventually spilled out into the car. Ter had noticed ornaments hanging from the rearview mirror in parked cars and thought it would be cool to dress up the Camaro in kind. An annual tradition was for us to each buy a special decoration for the tree; on one year’s outing, we bought Jules his bells. They were tied with a red ribbon to his mirror, and every time he hit a dip or a bump, he’d jingle. Such a merry sound, it was destined to keep us in the holiday spirit no matter how crappy the weather or dismal our mood. With that many bells tingling on the string, you had to be a king-sized Grinch to stay grouchy.

Inevitably, the old horse began to fail and in the spring of 2010, we replaced him with another brand new vehicle, one better-suited to Ter’s work commute and my old bones. When it came time to pull out the Christmas decorations that year, we found Jules’ bells wrapped in their crunchy tissue, waiting to be strung from his rearview mirror. There was no question, either. They were his bells; they wouldn’t be hung in the new car.

Now we hang them on our tree.

Auto Biography VIII

“The Bumblebee’s Camaro”

1990. Ter was starting her first fulltime government job and I was working graveyards at the radio station for $6.00 an hour. Blue Silver was our primary mode of transport, but with my odd hours and Ter now working 9 to 5, one vehicle was going to be challenged. We were living out of town and, as my younger older brother once described it, the bus service to and from consisted of “Three buses a week and all on Monday morning.”

It was time for Ter to buy herself a car.

She had admired the 1980s Chev Camaro for as long as I had known her. When she pictured herself owning a car, that was the one. She fancied the Berlinetta model, but has never been that stubborn about compromise. She came home one day all pumped about seeing a 1987 Camaro parked by the roadside with a “for sale” sign in its window and wanted me to go with her to see it.

You’re supposed to dream about the car of your dreams; that’s why it’s called the car of your dreams. You’re not supposed to own one from the get-go. That was my belief, anyway. Our family vehicles had always been previously-owned, functional for the purpose, and apparently expensive to maintain. We have no mechanics in the family, so whenever something went wrong with the car, it was a costly pain in the posterior for my parents. I grew up expecting the same fate to befall me, so despite my passion for the art of automotive design, Thunder had been chosen for practicality over aesthetics. Silver had been far less realistic given my financial situation, but she was a classic Mustang, end of argument.

Ter grew up in the big city. Neither parent drove, so there had been no family car. She learned to drive in 1985, taking her road test in my Dodge and sharing Silver until it became evident that a second vehicle might be in order. Her auto experience so differed from mine that it never occurred to her that she should start small with something practical, like a Toyota Corolla or a Honda Civic. She had no idea that you work your way up to a sportscar. Naturally, I didn’t tell her any of this; I figured she would look at the car, decide it was too expensive, too big, too far beyond her reach, and let it go.

She didn’t. She bought it.

In her purest state, Ter is a bumblebee with absolutely no concept that her aerodynamics make flight impossible. If she wants something badly enough, she simply makes it happen. I have seen her will in action countless times over the years and, good or bad, it remains one of the world’s unsung wonders. One of my favourite stories is of her dad sitting out with one of his cronies when she drove her snappy new prize into the parking lot at their apartment building. Dad’s pal said to him, “Is that her boyfriend’s car?”

Dad proudly replied, “No, it’s my daughter’s.”

He knew.